My first reading of Tolstoy affected me as a revelation from heaven, as the trumpet of the judgment. What he made me feel was notthe desire to imitate, but the conviction that imitation was futile.

I have little faith in the theory that organized killing is the best prelude to peace.

Nothing in life is so hard that you can't make it easier by the way you take it.

The only natural human beings seem to be those who are making trouble.

Knowledge, like experience, is valid in fiction only after it has dissolved and filtered down through the imagination into reality.

There is in every human being, I think, a native country of the mind, where, protected by inaccessible barriers, the sensitive dream life may exist safely.

The pathos of life is worse than the tragedy.